His Mind Is Up To No Good
by Donteatacowman
Summary: Ernesto is all set to leave for his trip with Héctor to play for the world. Imelda says something before they leave that changes Ernesto's outlook entirely. Same continuity as "We Don't Want Your Body," though you don't need to read that first. Mature themes/language, tw for unhealthy relationships/manipulation/misogyny. Imelda/Héctor/Ernesto. Not fluff.


Ernesto watched his friend pick up the little girl and spin her around with, the bottom of her dress flaring up like a blooming flower. Héctor and niños-you couldn't watch them interact without smiling, yourself. Héctor's laughter was as contagious as the plague and twice as dangerous, mischief always bubbling under the surface.

"So, you're off, sí?" Imelda interrupted Ernesto's contented sigh, bumping her shoulder against his.

Ernesto smiled back toothily. He'd always had one of those movie-star smiles that exposed his gums. "Sí. We'll get to the city by nightfall as long as Héctor doesn't stay here with Coco for another hour." Which was looking more and more like a possibility.

"Ay, the guitar's out," Imelda comentated. Indeed, Héctor had unlatched his guitar case and was playing a few dance song riffs to Coco's young amusement. "You're not leaving any time soon."

Ernesto rolled his eyes at his amigo, then inclined his head to the young couple's house. "Coffee?" he asked as though he were offering it to Imelda rather than the other way round.

"Don't mind if I do, gracias," she replied dryly. "I suppose you'll be partaking as well?"

"If you would be so kind, senõra."

"I did want to talk to you before you two left." Ernesto waggled his eyebrows as they entered the small home. Imelda pushed him aside with a scoff. " _Just_ talk."

"Imelda, those lonely nights will get so cold," he protested, pulling out a chair at the table with a loud squeal as its legs dragged against the floor. "Let me warm you up before we go."

"Coco's outside!" she protested, pretending to be scandalized. She avoided eye contact, opening a drawer to find a pot and pouring some water.

Ernesto watched as she busily got a blaze going in the stove and set the pot to boil for their coffee. "I'm sure she won't mind if we borrow her papá for a quarter hour."

Imelda was quiet as she finished preparing the stove. She pulled out a seat opposite Ernesto, glancing at the door and then back at him. "Actually, Ernesto. Héctor is what I wanted to talk to you about."

Ernesto inclined his head. "I'll take good care of him. I always do."

Imelda frowned. "It's not that. I… I shouldn't be the one to be talking to you about this." She reached across the table, grasping for Ernesto's hand. He obliged, confused at the comforting gesture. "But no one else is going to be honest with you the way I can be. _Especially_ not Héctor."

Ernesto laughed, baffled. "What? I can read that boy like a book!"

She shook her head. "You know what kind of performer he can be when he tries. You've asked him to put on performances for you so often, he's just used to it by now. But it wears on him. You don't see the way he acts when it's just him and me, when he doesn't have to pretend for you."

"He likes performing our music together," Ernesto said. "It's good for him." He was playing dumb a little, since clearly Imelda wasn't talking about their musical act. But he was genuinely confused where this was coming from.

Imelda wasn't having any of his nonsense and told him so with a stare. "You ask so much of him, querido. He gets home from a late night of labor, you want him to play guitar for you instead of staying at home with his daughter. He puts aside a date night, you take him out to get drunk. He builds a nice new home for his family, you ask him to leave it and wander around the country!"

"I'm getting him to have _fun_ ," Ernesto retorted. "To loosen up! You've spent your whole marriage trying to turn him into this man, but he's still a little boy-"

"How do _you_ know what _he_ thinks is fun?" Imelda said sharply. "Have you asked him?"

"I've known him for years. Longer than you have! I know what he likes by now!"

"Have you asked him?" she said again. She stood up as the pot on the stove began to burble and grumble.

"I don't need to!"

"Yes, you do!" Imelda pulled a spoon out of a drawer, carefully measuring out scoops of coffee and dropping them into the water as she pulled it off its burner. "He wants to please you because he's _always_ wanted to please you. Looked up to you as un hermano mayor! But a real older brother would be looking out for his little one, not selfishly dragging him wherever he wants."

Ernesto leaned his head on a hand. "A brother wouldn't do what _we_ do." He made a lewd gesture with his free hand. Imelda glanced at him with disgust. A frown settled over Ernesto's features, remembering a time when Imelda would always laugh at his dirty jokes.

She kept her back to him, stirring the pot slowly with a wooden spoon. "You've never grown up, Ernesto. All you think about is booze and performing and fucking. There's more to life than that."

"Like what?" He was definitely being willfully ignorant now.

Imelda turned around and pointed the spoon at him. Wet coffee grounds dripped from the end of it to the floor, some of it splashing onto Ernesto's shirt, which he wiped off with a grimace. "Like family, for instance?! I can't believe what you're doing to yours."

He picked at the grounds with his short nails, grimacing. "They're my family, not my _owners_ , Imelda. Just like you're not Héctor's owner no matter how much you try to be."

"You're one to talk!" Imelda pinched her brow. "Look, I'm not trying to start a fight with you. I just want you to realize. Héctor grew up without una familia. For a long time, you were all he had. Then the three of us, we were all each other had."

"Past tense," Ernesto observed.

"Past tense," she confirmed. "He's a husband, now. A father. What we had… What you, and I, and he had, all together, it just won't work anymore."

Ernesto stood from the table, coming behind Imelda and laying a hand on her shoulder. She started at the touch. "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."

Imelda tsked and left the spoon in the coffee, reaching an arm to cross her chest and hold Ernesto's hand. He slipped the other one around her waist and, for a moment, everything was warm and cozy and alright. But she spoke. "He's thinking of me."

"What?"

"When he's with you, Ernesto. He's only thinking of me." Ernesto had never heard such cruel words said in such a soft, gentle tone. He didn't even react right away, shocked. Imelda shrugged her way out of his embrace, taking the pot with her and pouring the coffee into cups nonchalantly. Ernesto could almost convince himself that he misheard or misunderstood but she continued. "He's not a performer like you are. He can't keep this up forever. This trip that you're leaving on will be your last." And like the subject was done with, Imelda pursed her lips and blew on the fresh coffee, handing it to her lover. "Make it count."

Ernesto didn't take the drink. His jaw was hanging open, he realized, and shut it abruptly. "You can't just-" And his expression morphed into a snarl. "You can't make that decision for him! Or for me! I am just as important to Héctor as you are!"

"Perhaps," she said skeptically, blowing on her own drink to cool it before taking a sip. She turned her head to the door, briefly letting Héctor and Coco's giggles fill the silence between her and Ernesto. "But _I_ am not the only one in this familia anymore."

Ernesto was speechless. Imelda couldn't have hurt him more if she slapped him across the face with her boot. His face was heating up either with embarrassment or rage and he turned around, unwilling to let Imelda see him in such a compromising position. "¡Amigo!" he thundered, storming out of the house and scooping up Héctor's guitar case. "We need to leave, _now_!"

Coco was evidently surprised at the sudden angry tone and was startled into crying. "Oh, no, no, shh, cálmate, mija," Héctor said immediately like it was a reflexive response, scooping his daughter into his arms and bouncing her a little. "It's all alright, Tío Ernesto didn't mean to shout!" Héctor shot his friend a Look over his daughter's shoulder.

Any other day, Ernesto would probably have apologized to the brat just to keep her pacified. But right now? He wasn't in the mood. "We're going to be _late_ ," he said stubbornly, unable to keep his voice even.

Héctor looked from Ernesto to Coco, trying to weigh his options. He wanted to soothe his daughter but he could tell that Ernesto's mood would only get worse the more he delayed, which in turn would make Coco more upset. "Ah, let's have a good goodbye then?" he said quickly. Coco squirmed and wailed in his arms, unhappy with this development.

Summoned by her daughter's distress, Imelda left the house. "Give her to me, Héctor," she said with arms outstretched.

Héctor, a little guilty for being relieved of his sobbing burden, obeyed. "Hey, hey, it's not so bad," he said, pecking Coco's forehead and nudging her toward her mamá. "I'll come home soon. And I'll play your song every night, de acuerdo? But you have to sing it too. Right before bed."

"Can we sing it now, papá?" the girl said with a sniffle, her little fist not letting go of Héctor's vest.

Ernesto huffed. "The guitar's already packed up."

Héctor sent him another look of mixed annoyance and concern-Ernesto could be impatient, but he wasn't usually this terse. "Let's quick sing it a capela."

Ernesto couldn't stand it anymore. "I'll meet you by the station," he said, picking up his own suitcase from where it lay in the yard. Before anyone could protest, he stalked off from the little house through the streets of Santa Cecilia, kicking pebbles and trying not to think too hard about anything that was happening.

Héctor miraculously caught up with him after a mere ten minutes of dilly-dallying, his lanky limbs churning through the air like he was trying to swim through the air itself as he ran. "What-What was-" Héctor started to say, clasping his suitcase to his chest and panting. "What was all that, amigo? You made Coco _cry_."

"You say that like it's a capital offense," Ernesto grumbled.

He handed Héctor the guitar case, which the man tiredly took. "What's gotten into you?" he said.

"Your _wife_ ," Ernesto said, crossing his arms. He added, "And, no, I didn't get into _her_ even once."

Héctor chuckled, though the sound was strained. "Imelda can certainly be… spirited. She chewed me out for this trip, believe you me. I thought she'd drag me by the ear and throw me out of my own house. You should have heard that fight we had last night! Well, with how loud she was, I bet you did hear it. I still can't believe the neighbors didn't call the policia, that is, not that they would have _had_ to, but for the noise complaints alone, and it's not like we were any quieter when we made up-"

Héctor's chatter was the only noise as the two of them plodded toward the station until Ernesto interrupted with an annoyed "Not now, Héctor! I don't want to hear any of it now."

Héctor seemed befuddled but shut his mouth. Ernesto didn't talk to him further, though he couldn't help but steal furtive glances now and then.

When the men and their luggage were loaded onto the train and it set off from Santa Cecilia with a lurch, Ernesto slung his arm around Héctor's shoulder and pulled him close. Héctor didn't protest. Of course he didn't! Héctor never protested when Ernesto wanted something. What did that bitch think she was talking about? Offering ultimatums like that to this to this _kid_ , hell, Héctor wasn't even twenty-two yet! He didn't deserve to get his whole future stolen, not by some whore who he'd just _happened_ to knock up. When did Imelda even enter the picture, anyway? Ernesto had more than staked his claim on that gangly hardly-a-man by the time the two of them met her.

Héctor was protesting now, a laughing little "Ow, ow, too tight, Ernesto," and Ernesto realized he'd been clenching a fist into Héctor's skin beside him. He eased off, though he didn't apologize.

When they were fooling around that night in the rented room, Ernesto said " _te amo_ " for no reason at all, mumbling the words around Héctor's calloused fingertips. Héctor froze then. Love had always seemed like an invisible barrier between the two of them-they were friends, they were close, they had sex, but they never mentioned _love_. Never done anything to jeopardize either of their futures in such a way.

Héctor didn't say it back.

Ernesto restlessly moved the man's hand lower down, hungrily demanding more attention, but Héctor was less enthusiastic. Ernesto almost, _almost_ demanded "¿ _Me amas_?" in Héctor's ear but decided against it. If Héctor hadn't answered, he wouldn't have been able to stand it.

It wasn't even that night that made up Ernesto's mind as to the truth of Imelda's words.

The breaking point came when he sat beside Héctor a few days later, Héctor's head leaning against his shoulder. Héctor was gently fingering a melody on his guitar, a lingering tune of desire that was just melancholic enough to feel like romance.

"Thinking about Imelda?" Ernesto asked, trying to sound offhand.

When Héctor dreamily answered "Sí" without a second thought, Ernesto knew he had to do something drastic.

Their trip kept getting longer. The deadline to go home kept getting pushed back. And Héctor kept following Ernesto's lead, kept reluctantly agreeing, kept performing to make his amigo happy just the way Imelda said he would.

But it wasn't enough. Ernesto knew it would never be enough every time he heard that damn refrain that Héctor insisted on playing for his hija every single fucking night.

 _It's your family or me, Héctor_. He barely restrained himself from saying it every time. Every time that fucking song played, every time they performed onstage, every time they fucked. _It's your family or me._

Imelda was wrong. Héctor would never choose her and Coco over Ernesto.

Ernesto wouldn't _let_ him.


End file.
